


Silver and Steel Side Stories

by inexplicifics



Series: Silver and Steel [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eskel/Original Male Character mentioned, Explicit Consent, F/M, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Smut, discussion of marriage as a concept, potion-induced lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: A place for short fics in the Silver and Steel 'verse that don't quite stand alone well enough to have their own entries. Tags to be added as chapters are.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Silver and Steel [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614712
Comments: 20
Kudos: 232





	1. Black Eyes, Gold Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: Geralt comes back to camp still black-eyed from potions, and Amaranth welcomes him with open arms.  
> Chapter 2: A month after Geralt nearly dies, Eskel has a question for Amaranth that gives all three of them a lot to think about.  
> Chapter 3: After their first year on the Path, Eskel has learned something that he very much wants to show Geralt.

**Spring of 1197**

It’s still fairly early in their - their relationship, their whatever the fuck it is, Geralt doesn’t quite dare put a name to it, this thing where he can hold Amaranth in his arms every night and kiss her every morning and fuck her any time he pleases - and Geralt comes back to their campsite with his eyes black with potions, violence thrumming in his veins. He doesn’t really want Amaranth to see him like this. He doesn’t want _this_ to be what turns lavender-and-sage to bitter fear. She’s seen him black-eyed and snarling before, but not since they’ve started fucking, not since Geralt has been hers and she’s been _his_.

But he’s got a bleeding gash down one arm that needs stitches, and the dark animal part of him, the part that’s brought out by the potions to make him an even more efficient killer, and only fades away again with painful slowness, wants its _mate_.

One of its mates, at least. If Eskel was close enough, Geralt knows he’d go to _him_ , probably while carrying Amaranth. But Eskel is far away, and Amaranth is right here.

She looks up as he passes the wards, and the deeply-buried sane part of Geralt wonders if he _triggered_ the wards, if they alerted her to danger coming. He _is_ dangerous like this. But she smiles as she rises, comes to him as quickly and easily as though it is any other day, herds him over to sit by the fire and unlatches his armor and sets it aside, tugs his shirt off over his head and tsks over his injury and takes the sewing kit from where it’s been sitting ready.

“Hold still, White Wolf,“ she says, quietly, as though she has no doubts he will, and Geralt breathes in lavender-and-sage and the copper tang of his own blood, and sits still as she stitches him up.

He manages to hold himself together until she’s put the needle and thread away, rinsed her hands in a bucket of water and picked up a wet rag with the clear intent of rinsing blood and sweat and nastier things from him. He shudders when she touches him with the rag, but he holds it together, keeps himself still while his - while his mate grooms him, whispers that dark animal side, and it’s very pleased by the way she does so, by the care in her hands and the calm scent of her, by the utter lack of fear.

And then he is clean - or at least as clean as he’s likely to get, camping rough like this - and Amaranth tosses the rag back into the bucket, and the quiet splash breaks Geralt’s tenuous control. He _pounces_ , just enough sanity left to cradle Amaranth’s head in one broad hand, to pin her to the bedrolls instead of the rocky ground.

Amaranth makes a startled little noise and then laughs. Geralt pauses, so taken aback by the laugh that it cuts through even the potion-induced madness. “White Wolf,“ she croons, and reaches up to run her hands over his cheekbones, his jawline, the tendons of his neck. “Going to devour me, my wolf?“

“Yes,“ Geralt rasps, and Amaranth’s breath comes short, and if she starts to smell like fear it _will_ be enough to give him his control back, he _will_ let go and roll away and go run through the woods until the potions work themselves out of his system, even like this she is his mate and he will never harm her -

And instead of fear, her scent goes thick with lust.

“White Wolf,“ she says again, low and coaxing and pleased. “My wolf, my fierce gentle witcher. Let me get my clothes off.“

Geralt sits back on his haunches, and Amaranth stands and strips for him, tossing her clothing aside like it’s nothing. The dark animal part of him licks its lips at this: at his mate, baring herself for him, willingly making herself vulnerable. Not physically, perhaps - Geralt knows her personal wards are strong - but she has given him her heart, and she is giving him her _trust_.

“Come here,“ he rasps, and Amaranth comes willingly into his arms, settles into his lap and kisses him sweet and soft and hungry.

With Eskel, Geralt is often rough, because he knows that Eskel likes it, can take it, will give back in equal measure. With Amaranth, he is...not precisely _gentle_ , but careful. She may be a powerful sorceress, but she is still fragile, still closer to truly human than Geralt has maybe ever been. Tonight, though, the potions have him in their grip, and he does not think he can be careful. His mate is in his arms, and he wants - he _needs_ \- to stake his claim.

But not if it will hurt her. Animal or no, Geralt will never willingly harm one who is _his_. “Tell me,” he growls, “tell me you want -”

“You,” Amaranth says instantly. “My White Wolf, take what you need.”

Geralt bends his head to the crook of her neck, soft skin smelling of lavender and sage and lust, and _bites_. Amaranth cries out softly, arching against his hands on her, not to get away but to get _closer_ , gods be good, and Geralt worries at the bite until he knows he has left a mark, left his claim, that it will show red against her skin for _days_. Amaranth shudders in his arms, and her hips hitch against his, pressing the core of her against his prick, still trapped in his breeches, and Geralt growls approval and urges her onward with a hand on her hip. Fuck, it’s _good_ , his mate in his arms, rutting against him, making soft wanting noises and clutching at his shoulders, smelling of lust and lavender and sage.

Geralt tilts her back over one arm so he can get his mouth on her breasts, nipping and licking and ravenous for the taste of her, and Amaranth’s hips keep moving almost frantically, her soft cries turn to moans and then to a sharp, desperate gasp as she shudders hard and her hands go tight on his shoulders and she peaks just from this, just from his mouth on her breasts and his trapped prick rubbing against her.

Geralt snarls and lifts Amaranth with one arm, tearing at the laces of his trousers with his other hand. They snap, sturdy leather as breakable as thread beneath his fingers, and he pulls his prick free and guides Amaranth down onto it all in one easy motion. Amaranth cries out again, sweet and desperate. Geralt braces his feet and spreads his knees a little wider and cradles Amaranth close, biting kisses down her throat, and _fucks_ her. Like this, Amaranth spread out on his lap, she has no leverage - her legs are spread too wide for her to even brace against the ground properly - but he has witcher strength and the potions’ madness, and he can hold her up and drive himself into her so easily.

“Touch yourself,“ he rumbles. “I want to feel you -“

Amaranth pries a hand off his shoulder and shoves it down between them, and her sweet cries turn sharp and desperate as her fingers work, and then she _wails_ her pleasure as she peaks. It pulls Geralt over, too, and he growls and bites at her shoulder as he fills her with his spend - and keeps fucking her, one peak vastly insufficient for the fever-heat in his blood.

“Oh fuck,” Amaranth gasps. “Oh _fuck_ , Geralt -”

Geralt rumbles a growl against her throat, pleased by the hoarse desperation in her voice. “Not done with you yet,” he murmurs, and Amaranth gets one hand into his hair and hauls his head up into a kiss. Geralt lets her, licks at her teeth and nips at her lips and swallows her moans hungrily, until she’s shaking under his hands.

And then he tips her back onto the bedroll and follows her down, gathering her hands in one of his and pinning her wrists above her head. Amaranth goes tense for a single moment - Geralt tries to claw back a little control - and then she relaxes, lets her head tilt back and her legs fall wide apart, her hands unclench. “I am yours, my wolf,” she says, and Geralt growls in satisfaction, his mate spread out below him and _wanting_ , smelling of lust and lavender and sage and _him_.

It makes him want to fuck her until she can’t say anything but his name, and for once, he doesn’t need to rein his instincts in. He plants his free hand firmly on the bedrolls and puts his back into it. Beneath him, Amaranth goes from gasping to moaning to high, thin, desperate whines, to a low keening cry as she hits another peak, writhing against him, arching up as though to pull him deeper into her. That’s good, but it’s not quite enough, not quite mindless desperation, and Geralt bends his head to her breasts, licks and kisses and bites hard enough to leave a scattering of pale bruises, hikes her hips up a little more and finds the perfect angle to make her wail his name.

Her final peak brings him over again, too, and he can feel the potions’ madness draining from him as he shudders. He goes down on his elbows above Amaranth, panting against her throat, and Amaranth shivers into stillness and brings her hands down carefully to stroke his hair.

“Well,” she says, once both of their breathing has evened out and Geralt’s heartrate has dropped to something a little more normal for a witcher. “And a lovely evening to you too.”

Geralt laughs against her throat, immeasurably relieved, and then sits back on his haunches, looking her over to make sure he didn’t accidentally do her harm. There are definitely bruises here and there, bite-marks and the prints of his hands, but none of them are particularly dark or deep, certainly not enough to draw blood, and she is smiling, looking exhausted but pleased. “Alright?” Geralt asks quietly.

Amaranth stretches, gasping a little, and smiles wider. “Entirely, my wolf. Which potion was that?”

Geralt swallows. “Only partially the potion,” he admits.

“What was the rest?” Amaranth inquires, reaching for the bucket of water. Geralt leans over and snags it, pulls out the rag and begins gently wiping Amaranth clean. She sighs and stretches out beneath his hands, making a low contented sound.

“You’re my mate,” Geralt confesses. “One of my mates.”

“Ah,” Amaranth says. “Well. We should definitely try this again this winter. I think Eskel and I between us might actually be able to wear you out.”

Geralt gapes. “You - you would - again?”

Amaranth props herself up on an elbow and reaches out with her free hand to cup Geralt’s jaw, drawing him closer with the slightest pressure. “I peaked _four times_ ,” she says. “And you are glorious in your ferocity, my wolf. I do prefer your eyes golden, but they are quite striking black.” Her thumb sweeps over his cheekbone, gentle and utterly distracting. “I could feel what you were feeling,” she reminds him quietly. “You wanted _me_. My pleasure. My surrender, yes, but - only to pleasure. Only to your hunger. It was _intoxicating_. I will very gladly do this again, as often as you need it.”

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers. Amaranth draws him closer yet, and presses her lips to his in a kiss that’s very nearly chaste.

“There are no thanks needed,” she murmurs, and then lets herself sag back onto the bedrolls. “But I may wish to camp another night, rather than traveling tomorrow. Ooh, I’ll be feeling this in the morning.” Her grin is sun-bright and unrepentant.

“Anything you want,” Geralt promises, and wipes himself down with rough haste, and stretches out beside her, gathering her into his arms and tucking his nose into her hair. She sighs and relaxes, heavy and warm against him, breathing and heartbeat evening out into slumber.

“Anything,” Geralt promises again against her hair. It’s a dangerous oath - one a witcher ought not make to a sorceress, ought not make to _anyone_ \- but she is his mate, his silver blade. Saying the truth out loud doesn’t make it truer. He _would_ do anything, for her or for Eskel.

And he can promise it, because he knows that neither of them will ever ask for anything he does not want to give.

Try this again in the winter, huh. Eskel would probably be up for that.


	2. The White Wolf's Blades

**Winter of 1201**

It’s an otherwise unremarkable winter evening, about a month after Geralt’s near-death, and Geralt is dozing contentedly between his lovers, blissfully exhausted. Eskel is tracing patterns on Geralt’s chest. Amaranth is sitting up braiding Geralt’s hair. It’s very peaceful.

At least, it is until Eskel says, “So I don’t know much about how other relationships go, but are you going to be wanting to marry Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes slam open. Amaranth leans down to kiss his forehead and hums.

“Well, that’s a whole pile of questions in one,” she says slowly.

“It is?” Eskel asks, sounding as confused as Geralt feels.

“Oh yes,” Amaranth says. “Leaving aside for the moment the question of whether Geralt would want to marry _me_ , there’s at least three questions that I can think of, and they’ve all got different answers.”

“Oh?” Eskel asks. Geralt lets himself be lulled into closing his eyes again when Amaranth keeps braiding his hair with gentle, firm fingers.

“Well,” Amaranth says, “the first question is whether I would like some token of the fact that I plan to spend the rest of my life with Geralt, and the answer to that is...probably yes. I don’t _need_ one, but it might be nice to have.”

Geralt swallows. A token? What sort of token does one get one’s lover? This was _not_ covered in witcher training.

“Alright,” Eskel says. “Go on.”

“Second question is whether I need to stand up in front of a priest and have him natter about gods in order to prove my love,” Amaranth says, “and even leaving aside the question of whether we could find a priest who’d marry me to a witcher, I don’t see any need for it. What have the gods to do with where I have given my heart?”

Geralt hums. That makes sense, at least. He’s got little patience for gods. They don’t seem to do much for their followers.

“Third question is whether I _ever_ want to do something that makes it seem like I’ve got more of a claim on Geralt than you do, packmate, and the answer to _that_ is a complete and unqualified _no_.”

Geralt’s eyes open again in surprise at the vehemence in Amaranth’s voice. She’s looking down at them both fiercely, green eyes sparkling with strong emotion.

Eskel reaches over to put a hand on her knee. “I didn’t think _that_ , packmate.”

“Good,” Amaranth says. “And as I don’t think our odds of finding a priest who will marry a witcher to another witcher _and_ a woman are terribly good, marriage doesn’t seem to be in my future.” She shrugs. “I don’t need it. Everyone who matters knows how I feel about Geralt.”

“Me, Vesemir, and Geralt?” Eskel says, grinning.

“I’d have left Vesemir off the list,” Amaranth says dryly.

“Alright,” Eskel says. Geralt hums, and reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of Amaranth’s neck and pull her down into a gentle kiss.

*

Geralt thinks about it late that night, once Amaranth and Eskel are both asleep. He’s never thought before about marriage - not as regards himself - and like Eskel and Amaranth, sees no point in standing in front of some priest or other, even if a willing priest could be found. But giving his lovers some sort of token - something to mark them as _his_ …

Geralt is mildly surprised by the wave of possessive delight he feels at that thought. It wouldn’t even have to be something _visible_ \- he’d be just as happy with something that could be worn under clothing - but just knowing that his mates - his _pack_ \- are marked as his, and he as theirs…

He’d never have thought of it if Amaranth hadn’t brought it up, but now he wants it rather desperately. He’s not got any idea _what_ , though.

He falls asleep still trying to think of something.

*

“So, a token,” Eskel says the next day. Amaranth is in the kitchen, putting together something that already smells delicious; Vesemir is in the potions workroom. Eskel and Geralt have just finished a wrestling match, and Geralt is basking in the knowledge that he’s got his strength fully back. “Got any ideas?”

Geralt groans and throws an arm over his face. “Fuck,” he says emphatically. “No.”

“Well then, good thing I’m the clever one,” Eskel says, draping himself over Geralt like a particularly heavy - and sweaty - blanket. Geralt swears again and shoves at Eskel’s shoulder, and Eskel laughs and goes limp, somehow making himself _heavier_. “I’ve got an idea. Something we could all wear.”

Geralt stops shoving and hums in interest. “Rings might interfere with using a sword,” he points out.

“Yes, I know that,” Eskel says, rolling to his feet and offering Geralt a hand up. Geralt takes it, and manfully resists the urge to yank Eskel back down onto the floor and see how _he_ likes being used as a mattress. “Trust me, yeah?”

“Always,” Geralt says, and falls in beside Eskel as the other witcher leads the way down to the storerooms. Whatever this idea is, Geralt will at least hear it out.

*

Geralt presses the token into Amaranth’s hands mutely. It’s probably not what she meant - it’s not a piece of delicate jewelry or a pretty scarf, or anything like that. Geralt and Eskel are witchers, after all.

Amaranth blinks up at him, gives Eskel a curious look - Eskel is watching them nervously, biting his lip - and then opens her hand and looks down. Her eyes go very wide. Slowly, she traces the object with a finger.

A medallion, the same shape and size as the ones Geralt and Eskel wear, strung from a sturdy chain. Solid silver, heavy and cold. And carved into it, a wolf, curled up, in front of a pair of crossed blades.

“It’s not got any magic on it,” Eskel says. “Didn’t figure you’d want a medallion to be vibrating all the time, or anything like that.”

Amaranth hums and traces the curved outline of the wolf gently. “The White Wolf,” she says, voice very soft. “And his blades.” She looks up at Geralt and smiles, and it’s like sunrise, so beautiful Geralt’s breath catches. “Will you put it on me, my wolf?”

Geralt takes it gently, spreads the chain wide and lowers it carefully over her head. The medallion settles to her chest, nestled between her breasts, gleaming. Amaranth wraps one hand around it and takes a deep breath. “Are yours -?”

Geralt tugs his medallion out from under his shirt, and Eskel mimics him. Vesemir had given them _very_ odd looks when they asked about re-casting the metal, but he’d shown them how, and as far as they can tell, all the old spells have stayed on well enough. And it’s still a wolf - they’re still obviously Wolf School. It’s even _more_ witcher-y, Eskel had said, what with the swords and all, and Vesemir had given him a _look_ and gone off grumbling about not wanting to know.

It’s the three of them. The White Wolf and his blades, silver and steel. A promise cast in precious metal, for all of them to wear.

“Oh,” Amaranth whispers, and then steps forward, wrapping one arm around Geralt and the other around Eskel, and somehow they’re all hugging, a tangle of limbs and hair, and Amaranth is holding Geralt so hard it might actually _bruise_.

“Good idea,” he murmurs to Eskel.

“Told you I was the clever one,” Eskel replies.

Amaranth laughs against Geralt’s shoulder. “I love you,” she says, and Geralt kisses the top of her head. He knows what those words mean from a sorceress. From _this_ sorceress.

“My silver blade,” he says quietly, turns his head and kisses Eskel. “My steel blade.”

“Our White Wolf,” Eskel says, and Amaranth echoes him. “Our _pack_.”


	3. Take From Pleasure Fearlessly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their first year out on the Path, Eskel has learned something he'd like to show Geralt.

**Winter of 1181**

Eskel winds himself a little more tightly around Geralt, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt clings back just as hard. Nine months on the Path - nine months _alone_ , after the long years in Kaer Morhen, never far from each other, never far from the rest of the trainees - have been hard for both of them. Geralt has never before realized that while he likes to be...to be _alone together_ with Eskel, both of them reading or working on potions or meditating or caring for their weapons, not talking or touching but just _there_ , he does not like to be actually _alone_. The long months on the Path, camping by himself, no one else around but his _horse_ , have been startlingly unpleasant. Geralt thought he’d be good at solitude. He’s taciturn and bad at talking to people, he likes the quiet, likes training alone so he’s not stared at - but apparently he also likes knowing there _are_ people around, if he _wants_ to talk.

Knowing _Eskel_ is around.

But on the Path, it’s just him, and when there _are_ people around, they mostly glare at Geralt or spit on his shadow or pull their children away from his path, and they reek of fear, and it’s uncomfortable enough that he’s genuinely grateful for the loneliness of the road after a few days in any given town. Vesemir warned them all about this, about the way that witchers are distrusted and feared and hated by almost everyone, but it’s one thing to hear the warnings and another to live the reality.

But Geralt is a witcher, and he’s done what a witcher is meant to do. He’s killed drowners and ghouls and a couple of fleders and a boar - that last mostly because he stumbled into a boar-hunt gone horridly wrong and killed the fucking thing before it could finish savaging the entire hunting party - and gotten paid for most of them, and come back home to Kaer Morhen with some new scars and new stories and nine months of weariness on his shoulders. And it’s a relief he didn’t even know he needed, to see Eskel trudging up the Trail three days after Geralt arrived, looking like he’s been dragged backwards through a thornbush but alive and grinning wearily when he sees Geralt, scarred and weary but _here_.

And now they’re alone together in their room, wrapped up around each other so there’s not even a breath of space between them, and Geralt can’t smell anything but sword oil and silver and steel and _home_ , the perfect mix of scents, the smell that means that Eskel is real and alive and _here_.

For a long while, they’re both content to just _hold_ each other, breathing in their mingled scents and feeling the beat of witcher-slow hearts in time with each other, and then - Geralt’s not quite sure how - the easy comfort of it starts to shift, and Geralt is reminded that he is in bed with _Eskel_ , who he is allowed - encouraged - to kiss, to touch, to rut against if that’s what he wants to do.

He is abruptly sure that he needs to kiss Eskel more than he needs _air_.

Eskel kisses back just as eagerly, biting at Geralt’s lips and clutching at Geralt’s shoulders and back, and Geralt tries to put nine months of _missing_ Eskel into the kiss, nine months of loneliness, nine months of homesickness. “Fuck,” Eskel breathes when they part, long minutes later. “Fuck, I have _missed_ you.”

“Yes,” Geralt says, and kisses him again.

“So I learned a thing,” Eskel says breathlessly when they part again. “On the Path. Well. In a town. You know what I mean.”

Geralt nods and hums, wondering where this is going. “There was this one town that had a drowner problem and no money,” Eskel continues, and he’s actually _babbling_ a little. This is unusual. “And the owner of the brothel offered me three nights, on the house, plus food, and it was a _bad_ drowner problem, so -”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, confused. They talked about this before they went out on the Path. They’re not...not _married_ , or anything like that. They’ll take their pleasure where they find it, and it’s not like they’re cheating on each other. The Path is the Path, and Kaer Morhen is Kaer Morhen, and that’s how it’s got to be.

The fact that Geralt _hasn’t_ taken his pleasure with anyone else is just because everyone he met smelled like fear, and that’s about the furthest thing from appealing Geralt can imagine. It’s certainly not some sort of effort to be true to his beloved, or something like that.

“Right, yes, it’s _fine_ , but the thing is, the only whore who didn’t smell _fucking terrified_ was a guy,” Eskel says, and Geralt...isn’t quite sure how he feels about that. He’d been assuming Eskel would fuck _women_ on the Path, if he fucked anyone. He’s been assuming _he’ll_ fuck women, if he ever meets a woman who doesn’t stink of fear. He doesn’t think he’d want a man who wasn’t Eskel. “So I figured, what the hell, I was lonely and he was kinda pretty, and I figured we’d do what _we_ always do.”

Hands and mouths, rutting against each other, that trick Eskel figured out a couple years ago with oil and thighs - the boys of Kaer Morhen have figured all of that out, and Geralt and Eskel have gotten quite good at all of it. What else _is_ there to do with a man? Geralt’s pretty clear on what else you can do with a _woman_ , because Vesemir sat them all down before they went out on the Path and spelled out the details, along with the important facts that witchers are sterile and cannot catch or carry diseases, but men don’t have the same _parts_. Geralt hums curiously.

“He showed me how to _fuck_ him,” Eskel murmurs. “I want to try it with you.”

Geralt will try anything Eskel likes. He hums and kisses Eskel again. “Yes.”

“You’ll like it,” Eskel promises. “I did.”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s _you_ ,” he says. “I’ll like it.”

“Fuck,” Eskel says, and kisses him again, pushing Geralt down onto his back and sprawling atop him, heavy and warm. “Geralt, _my_ Geralt.”

“Eskel,” Geralt says, feeling a little overwhelmed already. They don’t put it into words often, this thing between them - don’t lay claim to each other aloud. It’s too much, too good, too potent; it’s not the sort of thing a witcher is allowed to have.

“Just - let me,” Eskel says, and Geralt nods.

Eskel’s mouth on his prick is normal enough - they’ve gotten good at this, know exactly how best to bring each other off quickly or string it out until the other is swearing and begging and tearing at the sheets. The oiled hand slipping down, probing at Geralt’s ass, _that’s_ new. It’s a slightly odd sensation when it slips into him - not painful, just weird. Neither good nor bad. Presumably it will feel different when it’s Eskel’s prick, which is substantially larger than a finger -

Eskel crooks his finger, searching for something, and Geralt almost bucks off the bed when he finds it. “What the _fuck_ ,” he gasps.

Eskel lifts his head and grins. “‘S good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Geralt says, and spreads his legs wider. “Again.” Eskel crooks his finger again, and Geralt makes a loud, guttural noise, and thanks the long-gone builders of Kaer Morhen that the walls are thick. The pleasure is so vivid it’s almost hard to even _identify_ as pleasure - it’s almost more like being struck by painless lightning. No wonder Eskel thought Geralt would like this.

Geralt is going to try this on _Eskel_. Possibly tomorrow.

Eskel gets his mouth back on Geralt’s prick and introduces another finger. There’s a slight stretch, but not enough to worry about - not even enough for Geralt to object to, not when both fingers go back to whatever the fuck that is as unerringly as a witcher’s sword finding a monster’s heart. Geralt takes fistfuls of the sheets and hangs on, panting.

Three fingers has a bit of a burn, not pain precisely but enough of an edge to make it really interesting - as though Geralt needs his attention any more firmly on this moment, this astonishing pleasure and heat, the wet sounds of oil-slick fingers and the way Eskel is watching him, pupils so wide they’re round. He’s stopped sucking Geralt’s prick, but that’s probably all to the good; Geralt can’t seem to stop himself from _moving_ , shifting, pressing against Eskel’s fingers to get them _deeper_.

“You like it,” Eskel says hoarsely.

“Yes,” Geralt rasps. “ _Fuck_.”

“Fuck,” Eskel agrees, and takes his fingers away. Geralt fucking _whines_. Eskel ranges himself over Geralt, braced on one hand, and nudges Geralt’s legs further apart with his knees. “Gonna -”

“Yes,” Geralt says again, and Eskel reaches down to guide his prick just barely into Geralt’s ass. They both go still, eyes meeting. Eskel’s pupils are so round, and so dark, there’s hardly any amber left around them. Everything smells like oil and sex and _Eskel_. Geralt licks his lips, and shifts his legs so they’re a little more comfortably spread, feet braced on the bed and knees sprawled wide, and nods.

“Alright,” Eskel breathes, and thrusts forward.

Geralt makes a noise he can’t name - something raw and hungry and shocked - and Eskel grins toothily and braces both hands on the bed and somehow crowds even _closer_. The sensation of Eskel _inside him_ is like nothing else Geralt has felt before. It’s very, very good.

Better if Eskel would _move_ , though.

Geralt gets a hand on Eskel’s hip and another hand around the back of Eskel’s neck, and hauls his fellow witcher down into a messy, hungry kiss. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says as their mouths part, an oath and an order in one.

“Yeah,” Eskel says, and starts to move, snarling with effort and pleasure, slow at first, shifting his knees and the angle of his thrusts until he hits whatever the fuck that spot is straight on, hard enough to make Geralt _yell_ with it.

 _Then_ Eskel finally puts his back into it, and Geralt claws at the sheets and Eskel’s shoulders and lets himself be _loud_ , because the walls are thick and no one is going to hear, and it makes Eskel growl when Geralt moans, growl and thrust harder. And _fuck_ , but this is good, Geralt’s almost mad that they didn’t figure this out _sooner_ because they could have been doing this for _years_ , but also if Eskel hadn’t known what he’s doing it probably wouldn’t have been as pleasant, at least the first few times, so maybe it’s better this way.

It’s definitely _good_ this way. Eskel is panting with exertion, eyes fixed on Geralt, and Geralt shoves a hand down between them and wraps it around his own prick and comes almost before he can stroke himself, the endless battering pleasure of Eskel hitting _that spot_ inside him like a wave picking him up and dropping him mercilessly over his peak. Eskel groans and his eyes fall shut and he shoves in _hard_ , and Geralt can feel his prick pulsing. It’s a very odd sensation. Not bad. Just odd.

Eskel collapses on top of him, and Geralt shifts a bit to get comfortable and wraps his arms around Eskel’s shoulders. Eskel’s breath is warm against his throat, and both their heartbeats are pounding in rapid unison, nearly as fast as human hearts would be.

“So,” Eskel says finally. “You liked that?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. He did. He liked it a _lot_.

“Try it the other way ‘round tomorrow?” Eskel suggests. Geralt grins.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hm. Bath?”

Eskel laughs and pushes himself up on an elbow so he can kiss Geralt, warm and easy and sweet. “Bath,” he agrees, swiping his free hand through the mess smeared over their chests and stomachs. “Don’t want to wake up stuck together.” They learned _that_ lesson years ago.

He rolls away, and Geralt makes a little sound of dismay at the loss of Eskel’s heavy warmth. Eskel pauses, rolls back, and leans down for another kiss.

They can wait a _little_ longer to get clean.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.


End file.
